A Guide Remembers
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: He dreams of Paris. He dreams of a revolution. He dreams of freedom. A guide's thoughts and fears of the upcoming fight for freedom. (Possible Reincarnation!AU) Cover art by the ridiculously amazingly talented Hamstr on tumblr. Please feel free to read and review! Much love and enjoy x


_**A/N: Combeferre dreams of death in June.**_

_**A short oneshot based on a brilliant and incredibly emotionally painful drawing by Hamstr on Tumblr featuring Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac (see cover image for more details!)**_

_**Brick/2012 film based**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for the amazing friendship presented through Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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A Guide Remembers

Combeferre dreams of death in June. Perhaps this isn't surprising- he is a medical student after all and so seeing death sweep its' cold, black fingers over the hospital wards is almost a daily ritual for him; but this is different. This time the death is real, it's close, too close as it claws away at the fragile walls he has spent so long perfecting to protect his fragile heart and there is nothing he can do about it.

He dreams of Paris.

He dreams of a revolution.

He dreams of freedom.

He dreams of Paris and a cold, clear June morning whose conserved heat would soon suffocate its' citizens; when the sun was little more than a splash of scarlet thrown across a steel-grey sky as a funeral carriage rumbles through the silently eerie streets of Rue St Denis and St Michel. Red on black. Black on red. A shout, a song, a steady throbbing beat rising up from the heart of the silently watchful crowd as a flag is raised and a man, an archangel, one of Heaven's vanguard itself dives from his place into the crowd. Almost instinctively Combeferre feels his hand tighten momentarily around a hank of spun sunlight which is twisted in his fist and feels the body beside him shift slightly in sleep; a long fingered, delicate hand the colour of marble reaching up to caress his cheek. _'I'm here. It's all right.' _The gesture seems to say as the dexterous digits linger for a moment longer as they trace the contours of the guide's face as the heat of the touch slowly fades away back into oblivion.

He dreams of the people rising as one as Enjolras has so often told them they would; of splashes of scarlet liberty flags- seas of tricolours- oceans of blue, white and red rippling through the morning air, of chants and shouts ringing through the streets as they march as one seething, rolling, living mass of humanity towards the pearly gates of freedom. He sees Enjolras; proud, beautiful, deadly, defiant Enjolras standing atop the funeral carriage; the cerulean blue orbs he knows so well blazing with the passionate flames of freedom, the mane of golden curls bathed in a halo of light as the light seems to catch him, caress him ignite him until he burns with the very fire of Liberty, a tattered liberty flag clenched within a marble fist billowing out behind him as the body of their forefather was slowly born to rest.

And suddenly the dream is changing. Without warning he feels the cold, hard pressure of a carbine being forced between shaking fingers as from somewhere he feels a sudden roar of rage ripping through his parched throat; sees the sickening scarlet stain slowly seeping its' way over a blue plaid shawl as the woman slumps against hard, unknown hands barely keeping her upright. He does not know who fired the shot. He only sees the blood slowly dribbling from a half open mouth, feels the leather of the horses' bridle suddenly drenched in icy sweat slip between nerveless digits as a sense of unbearable, inexplicable rage crashes over him and he sees himself sprinting back, his coat fanning out behind him in a blur of blue; heart pounding against his ribcage, wire-framed spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose as he skids across the cobbles, words ripping from his mouth in a burst of fire and grief and pain as he gazes down at the limp, still corpse lying in one of the students arms; her wispy grey hair falling from a tattered cap now soaked with blood as the flickering flame of life is finally extinguished and there is nothing he can do as he reaches for a pulse… '_She's an innocent woman! Murderer!'_

The words mean little, the rage bubbling up inside his chest even less as he silently offers up a prayer to whoever was listening that this unsuspecting innocent; their first real casualty of their glorious revolution will be borne into the peaceful land of hopeful Freedom without complaint. _'She is the first to fall- the first to fall upon this barricade!'_

But still the dream is changing, still he feels himself being thrown into a swirling oblivion of dark rainbows; hands reaching for the warm, solid security of Enjolras and Courfeyrac as he had left them; their warm bodies radiating with light and life tumbling through Morpheus' spell as they curled up on either side of him; the centre's nose buried deep within the nape of his neck; Enjolras' head rested on his chest; one hand fisted loosely within the fabric of his night-shirt; his sleep filled breaths landing in a soft, regular rhythm against Combeferre's chest; that, in normal circumstances would calm the guide, reassure him that the fears, the dreams that are slowly working their long, black tendrils through his sleeping physche are completely groundless; but not tonight.

Without warning he finds himself standing on the top floor of the Musain; their fragile home, the epicentre of their revolution, their dreams to set Enjolras' beloved Patria free from the tyrannical hands of the Bourgeois, the room that he is so used to seeing full to bursting point with eager minds and passionate souls but now… Now… He squeezes his eyes shut; feeling the glass from his cracked spectacle lenses digging painfully into his retinas; refusing to believe what he knows is before him as he feels the warm, shaking security of Joly's hand on his shoulder fall away as the shots ring out…

It isn't… They didn't… They couldn't… Those bodies…That isn't… That couldn't be… No… No… Not… Not Enjolras… Not Courfeyrac; living, loving, laughing Courfeyrac with the ghost of a last laugh still tugging at frozen lips… Not Grantaire… Not Jehan… Joly… Feuilly… Bossuet… Bahorel… Eponine… Gavroche the gamin who's little, fiery life held so much bright, fiery potential… Not Enjolras lying there… Not his best friend… His comrade at arms… His brother in all but blood lying in his final scarlet sacrifice to his beloved Patria with a necklace of dark bullet wounds all evenly placed against skin that is as pure and smooth as the Madonna's… NO! No… Please… No… Please… Please…

And yet he knows it is and it can as the room swims in and out of focus as he stumbles forwards; both of his legs feeling as if they have been plunged into wet lead and refuse to do his bidding, feeling the bile that he has so desperately tried to restrain rising through his throat in a sudden rush of agonising, fiery heat; hoping against hope that his brain is lying to him; that the bodies lying before him; looking for all the world like marionettes whose strings have been cut; are not those of his friends, his comrades at arms, that this is just a dream because this can only be a dream… Please… Please let this just be a dream…

And suddenly he's running, sobbing, screaming their names over and over again as he feels his knees give way and he is forced to crawl over the never ending blood soaked, wooden ocean that separates him from the bodies of the men, no; not men the bodies of the boys whom he has come to love so dearly and yet… and yet…_ Not dead. Please, please let them not be dead. Please… Not dead… Not dead… Not dead… Not…_

'Wake up! Please wake up… Please Mon Petit… Please 'Jolras… Please don't be… Don't be… I… I need you… Both of you... Wake up…' The words come choked and broken by tears as he supports the halo of blood soaked, golden curls into his lap; unable to stop the tears from erupting from the back of his eyelids and lets them fall; relishing in the scalding, salty pain that slices through his cheeks as a shaking hand reaches up to brush down the eyelids which bar him the honour of looking on the azure orbs so usually ablaze with the passionate flames of freedom but are now blank; the roaring fire of light and life snuffed out as easily as a hand cupping itself over a candle.

_Oh Enjolras… Oh Courfeyrac… Bahorel… Bossuet… Feuilly… Gavroche… Grantaire… Jehan… Joly… Mes Amis… I'm sorry… I should've… I should've protected you… I wanted to… I tried but I… I'm sorry… _

'Combeferre! Combeferre, wake up; please, wake up!' Hands on his shoulders. Shaking, terrified hands pulling him back into a reality he doesn't understand as a voice he recognizes from long ago suddenly cracks with terrified fear and he feels the warm, solid pressure of a shaking hand all but crushing his, squeezing his fingers so hard it hurts as he desperately tries to return to consciousness. 'It's all right 'Ferre… I'm here… It's all right…' The voice is thick with tears, muffled he thinks through the suddenly sweat soaked fabric of his nightshirt as the darkness that has clouded his vision finally begins to clear.

His breaths come out fast and ragged; fighting through his screaming lungs as he tries to return his breathing back to normal; reaching up to cling to the other, unknown hand that is squeezing his shoulder as the faint scent of coffee, cinnamon and chocolate tickles his nostrils.

'it's… It's all right… Everything's all right… I'm here… We're here… Both of us… You're safe now…' _Oh Enjolras… Oh Courfeyrac… You're not dead… I dreamt… I dreamt you died… Both of you… I thought… I saw… I don't… I didn't know… I thought… I…_

The sensation of someone pressing a glass into his hands as capable hands pull his body up into a sitting position. Thick, known hands curl his fingers around the source of unknown heat and holding them there as he lets out a ragged, sobbing breath and squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to staunch the sudden onslaught of images, the memories that still don't make sense as he feels the rugged callouses caressing the skin, the chip of a nail not filed down perfectly scratching his palm in a prick of pain as the warm comforting weight of a head leans itself against his shoulder; a whispered brush of angelic curls sweeping over his skin as a soft chaste kiss brushes his suddenly salt scarred cheek, kissing the hurt away. Without warning he feels another broken sob catch through his lips as Courfeyrac's solidly comforting bulk presses up on his other side; the warmth and security radiating from every pore of the dark haired centre's body supporting him back to safety as the other set of hands gently lift the mug to his lips and encourages him to drink as finally; finally the memories begin to slip away and he allows himself to sink back into the warmth and comfort of togetherness.

'We won't leave you 'Ferre; you hear me? Never.' Enjolras' voice is thick with exhaustion; yet the syllables sound sweeter to Combeferre's tortured psyche than all the nectar on Mount Olympus as he leans over to peck a kiss on Combeferre's nose; his arms shaking slightly as they tighten their grip around his best friend's arm; his tousled mop of golden curls coming to rest against the bony plateau of the guide's shoulder blade.

'Never ever. Not even in dreams Mon Cher', Courfeyrac echoes; and the guide knows without having to look that the centre is already slipping back under Morpheus' spell as he slowly leans over the pair of them and fumbles in the dark to try and place the rapidly cooling cup of tea safely on his bedside table before sinking back into his pillows.

'_It was just a dream Mon Ami', _Enjolras whispers into his hair; his breath hot and vibrant as it falls against a salt scarred cheek. '_Just a dream. I'm here now, both of us. It's going to be all right'. _

'_Promise you won't?' _Combeferre finds himself whispering back; reaching over to entwine his fingers with Enjolras' own in a silent act of much-needed companionship as the chief answers his question with another whispered kiss swooping down the taught tendons of his neck.

'_Promise', _the kiss seems to say as finally both men allow themselves to fall back under Morpheus' spell ; finally anchored once again within the knowledge and security of their friendship.

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_**A/N: This is for all the amazing people who have found the time to read, review, follow and favourite my stories- you are all incredible and I love and thank you from the bottom of my heart! **_

_**Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


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